


The Devourer

by ravenslight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, BAMF Hermione Granger, Dark Draco Malfoy, Dark Hermione Granger, Dark Magic, F/M, Inspired by Poetry, Kind of a creature fic?, Nikita Gill, Nikita Gill Challenge, RIP Canon, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-12-06 20:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18225230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight
Summary: Darkness breeds darkness. In the aftermath of the war and amidst Voldemort’s reign, two depraved souls find solace in the dance of their demons.Inspired by Nikita Gill’s poem “The Dance” and written for the DFW’s Nikita Gill challenge.





	1. Part 1: Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to preface this with the fact that I forgot this was supposed to be a one-shot challenge, so I wrote three chapters. It _could_ be posted as one chapter, but I'm extra and don't want to do that lol
> 
> Huge thanks to LadyKenz347 for reading through this for me. I was (and still am) super unsure about it, but she assured me it wasn't garbage! This fic is perhaps a little strange, some characters will be considered OOC, but try to read past that; there is an explanation in the bit of world building within. Regardless, thank you for taking the time to read this; I value your input. This is as yet unbeta'd; I will update this as soon as I've had someone go through it. I've broken the poem into three parts, and it (along with Gill's other works) can be read in its entirety here: https://www.instagram.com/p/BeWMgG4nERE/?hl=en.

****

**Part 1: _Darkness_**

_I will not have you_  
_without the darkness  
_ _that hides within you._

 

There is something poetic about the way blood seeps into the crevices of pristine tile. It awakens a part of him that has long been dormant, a part of him not even Voldemort had managed to unveil.

Once, when he was a child, Draco Malfoy’s mother had bandaged a scrape on his knee with the careful precision of a mother ill-prepared to deal with the ruckus of a rowdy pure-blood heir, but as the sole claim to the Malfoy name, she’d bent to his every whim. He cocks his head, comparing the deep crimson stains spider webbing outward to the remembered-red of the ruined handkerchief she’d used to wipe away the evidence of his torn trousers. She’d sealed the torn knee with a mending charm.

His father had entered the room, sparing him a cursory glance before pausing to take in the stained trousers. “Malfoy men are born into darkness. You would do well to honour your blood.”

Honour. What a foreign concept that had been to his still-developing mind. He’d gone directly to the manor’s library to look it up. “Adherence to a conventional standard of conduct,” it had read. Lots of large words for a small boy, but he decided he’d watch. He waited and he watched his father for cues of what honour meant for a Malfoy man. And he learned.

He tears his eyes upward, focusing on the witch before him. She’s lovely in a broken way, tears streaming down her face, but she loves it. She craves the degradation he offers, abjected in a way that calls to the deepest depravity in his soul, as he lashes cut after cut to her body with a flick of his wand. When he trails his fingertips over her splayed body, driving his fingers into their ruined flesh, he revels in the tremors he beckons forth, the gooseflesh that spreads over her skin. She’s his… for now. Until he grows bored.

He always grows bored.

Their sighs run together, their incessant desire to do whatever he tells them to growing tiresome after a few days. He’s the Malfoy heir—they’d be foolish to deny him anything. With Voldemort as his home’s keeper and Voldermort's former his right hand man since his… indiscretions, he has his pick of the lot.  

He used to revel in the way that they clamoured to please him, how they tripped over one another to prove themselves worthy of his time. Something about their blind lust, however, doused the fire in him. When he stared into the depths of their eyes, that spark—the one that he needed to match his—just didn’t burn bright enough. If it was there, it guttered in and out of existence at his insistence. None of them managed to maintain it long.

He also grows tired of the way they beg him for another chance.

He prowls the street night after night, looking for something to ease the darkness that lingers in his chest, that tries to claw its way out of his chest in a bid for escape.

A Malfoy man does not give in to depravity; he commands it with finesse, and he wields it as a weapon.

He can pinpoint the exact moment that the being woke in his chest. During the war, when the wonder Gryffindors were captured and dragged to his home in a bedraggled mess. Weasel and Scarhead were thrown into the dungeons after Bella saw they had the sword—the one he had placed in his family’s vault and sealed with familial magic; not even the goblins could have opened it, despite the fact that they controlled the whole of Gringotts. When Bella had been carving into Granger’s arm, her maniacal laughter bouncing off the walls and ringing in his ears, the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention as the stirrings of the beast inside him flickered one lazy eye open.

There was something about watching the girl write on the floor of his drawing room that both abhorred and intrigued him. She didn’t give in, didn’t show an ounce of shame when she soiled herself in front of him and his family. She’d refused to back down from Bella’s glare, and she had spit into the other woman’s face, calling whatever was within him to full attention. And then Bella had slashed through the girl’s artery and he’d watched as her blood drained out onto the floor around her and stained the pristine tile crimson, altogether missing the searing in his palm until he’d retired for the evening. It lay hidden beneath a glamour even now.

Since that night, he’d searched for ways to replicate that feeling within him, but no matter what he tried, nothing stirred the same feelings in his chest. They lay dormant, occasionally flickering to the surface at a particularly bloody mess, but he didn’t feel the same undeniable longing that he felt when he watched the light fade from Granger’s eyes, the sudden absence of it telling him he’d made a grave mistake.

All the other women—they beg and plead for mercy, for help. They tell him that they are different, and he loaths the various pleas falling from their lips. None of them possess the same quiet dignity that the Muggle-born witch had; despite the perverse nature of his desire, he longs to know what possessed the witch to rage into that good night. He doesn't want someone to beg for him to stop.

He needs someone to look his demons in the eye and fight them claw for claw.

It wasn’t long after the Battle of Hogwarts that he’d heard rumours. Voldemort reigned, the Order was essentially destroyed, and magical world was once more regaining its respected position in the world; they no longer had to hide on the fringes of society. But word was making it through the ranks—someone, somewhere, had seen Granger slinking amongst the shadows.

They never managed to keep an eye on her long; she seemed to melt into the shadows nearly as soon as one of the men saw her, but she always left a calling card on the body that lay ruined in her wake: the words “and if it does not contain All, then All is Nothing” carved into their flesh in a steady hand.

He’d been one of the first on the scene; at one point, Draco was one of Voldemort’s most trusted soldiers, but his inability to part with his frenetic search for that feeling drew him away from his duties, and thus Voldemort disgraced him. Whatever might happen, nothing was so important as the Lord, and forsaking him to chase an empty feeling was considered the most egregious of offenses.

Voldemort had stripped him of his mark without second thought. “A gift,” he’d said, because the alternative—death—was a far less appealing option. Draco had been told it was a kindness by some, a mark of his damnation by others. He’d long since learned that his status was far from satisfactory to the masses, so he embraced the lower-profile of his life without the mark, but he didn’t particularly appreciate the vulnerability it awarded him. Still, he used it to his advantage.

It is one of those nights that he feels the restless energy in his soul, calling for him to _find her_. And so he goes, traipsing through mud and muck, avoiding the glass of broken out shop windows of storefronts long since abandoned. The few shops still in business seem to hesitantly fight back the dreary evening, diminutive candle flames flickering on countertops and amongst cobwebs. No one dares linger on the streets, and he is still formidable enough by reputation that he’s able to drive those away who dare to spare him more than a cursory glance.

Whatever the outcome of the evening, he vows to find something, _anything,_ to placate the darkness within him. He fears what would happen if he did not.

He passes through the depths of Diagon Alley, boot heels clicking on the cold stone of Knockturn. The alley seems to have grown even more dour in the months since Voldemort’s reign began, and he keeps his eyes cast downward. Moaning issues from a newly established brothel—Wand in Hand its name, and he doesn’t think he could roll his eyes any harder—though he can’t tell if they sounds are satisfied or sorrowful. A cursory glance at the dilapidated building reminds him of the state of the world—Luna Lovegood’s prone form is still the running flyer on the storefront, advertising a night with LooneyLove, the girl’s ill begotten stage name.

Despite his thirst for violence, the thought that they would use witches so close to children’s age makes his stomach roil unpleasantly, and he has to force himself not to betray his conscious by throwing up in the middle of Knockturn.

He’s just about to step into Borgin and Burkes’ to question the man about his newest acqueries, flitting from shadow to shadow with ease, when he sees her. She leans against a wall, smoking a cigarette. The burning embers of the smoke cast her face in flickering silhouette, and he watches her. Smoke curls around her lips, and in that moment he would give anything to be that smoke, to wind around her and become inextricably intertwined in the mess of curls around her angular face. He releases a sharp exhale, and suddenly their gazeds are locked, and he is lost.

There’s something in her eyes—a flicker? A darkness?—that calls to him. The thing in his chest stirs, and his feet move of their own accord.  She doesn’t move, remaining against the brick as he approaches, but he swears he can feel her satisfaction in the slight downward tilt of her chin.

Words are beyond him, but she spares him when she exhales a breath of smoke; it’s all he can do not to lean into it, to sink into the clove and jasmine scent that wafts around her. When she speaks, her voice is husky, whether from disuse or the cigarette, he’s not sure.

“Fancy seeing you here, Malfoy.” She draws another hit off the cigarette, and his gaze is drawn to the moist line of her lips when she pulls it away and dangles it carelessly at her side.

“I rather thought the same, Granger. This isn’t your usual choice in locale.” The words rumble from deep in his chest, a voice that is altogether familiar and foreign to him.

The cynical lilt to her lips sends a shiver through him, and he has to resist the pull that he feels deep inside. “Things change. You ought to be well aware of that.”

Inclining his head in recognition, he smirks up at her between his lashes. “Touche.”

Another exhale bathes him in clove, and this time he doesn’t veil the shudder that wracks his body, the slight sway to his stance, the way he leans into her space. Inexplicably, she allows it, and, if he’s not mistaken, her lips tilt infinitesimally higher. She drops the filter to the ground, having smoked it down to a nub, and grinds it under the heel of her dragonhide boot. She is no longer the polished, prim prefect he knew at Hogwarts. Something about the way her hair dances around her in the deepening shadows calls to him in a way he never knew before.

When she closes the space between them, he freezes, but her breath dances over his ear, a rush of gooseflesh following in its wake. Her voice is nearly carried away on the breeze, but even had he not heard her, he would have felt the command in his soul: “Come with me.”

He is a slave to the coiled darkness in his chest, and he follows her without second thought, honour and expectations be damned. Her call is an ancient, sacred magic, and the being within him recognizes her; it longs for the touch of her hand, and he finds that he doesn’t much care to rebuke himself for his intrigue, for the way he leans into her presence.

When she turns on her heel and fades into the shadows, he follows.


	2. Part 2: Madness

**Part 2:** **_Madness_ **

__ I will not let you have me  
_ without the madness  
_ __ that makes me.

 

At dusk, her demon comes to her in the form of a man. 

He is beautiful, all angles and sharp edges. His cheekbones cut to the quick, and his presence speaks of freedom in a haunting melody that reverberates deep in her damaged soul.

War changed Hermione; she would be a liar if she said it didn’t. It had also, however, awakened her. Maybe it was the result of spending hour upon hour under Bellatrix’s cursed blade. Maybe it was the warm thrill that travelled up her arm at each casting of  _ Sectumsempra  _ during the battle of Hogwarts _.  _ Whatever it might be, she is an addict of the gaping chasm that has opened inside her chest, the space that—had she ever demonstrated more than a passing interest in the classics—she might have described as housing her heart.

Something about the way he lurks in the shadows watching her calls to her. She knows him from Hogwarts, but there is something wholly different about the way he prowls from shadow to shadow, the certainty in each step he takes, the preternatural stillness of his stance. 

When he exhales raggedly, she permits herself to meet his stare. It is hungry, an awareness beyond his own within him. She permits a small smile to grace her lips, and she waits. 

Maybe she is broken. It would certainly explain why she enjoys the darkening of his gaze, the sincerity of destruction so clearly etched in the fine planes of his face, the harsh cut of his jaw.

She beckons him deep within Knockturn Alley, past Borgin and Burkes, beyond the White Wyvern, pausing only when she reaches a nondescript expanse of brick wall, through which she passes after a cursory glance behind them to ensure no one follows. 

When he emerges on the other side, she allows him a cursory glance over the enclave before moving forward.

She remembers her first trip here well. The wynd is well-hidden; it is not often found without intention. Much like the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts, the individual must be in need of the space. She’d stumbled upon it in the early days of her break with Harry and Ron. 

It wasn’t large—perhaps ten feet across, bordered by decrepit storefronts on either side. One dared not linger in the square; there were far too many beings that delighted in the taste of human flesh to dawdle, but she was a formidable opponent, made so by experience, and she doesn’t anticipate challenges. Malfoy, however draws attention, so she strides across the narrow hall as eyes appear in the dingy windows. He follows close behind, and she doesn’t stop to allow his questions.

When she enters the building, the chatter within dies away. 

She can feel his gaze on her shoulder, but she doesn’t stop, cutting through the mass of bodies, and she orders a drink from the bar. Malfoy skirts around her, his eyes dancing over the side of her face as he holds his finger up, signalling the barkeep, who slides an additional drink to the man. She turns away without paying; the long-running tab is always paid in full, and no one questions her.

When she settles into a corner table, her back to the wall and forcing him to sit across from her, she takes a long pull from her drink, watching as he does the same. A chill lingers in the air, but she pays it no heed as she studies Malfoy. 

He stares back at her over the rim of his glass as she allows her gaze to run over him. He’s grown—certainly more rugged than he had been at Hogwarts. His wide shoulders are taut beneath his suit jacket, but the polished gentlemanly appearance does little to hide what lurks beneath the surface. He is coiled tight, a wire ready to explode from its confines, and she smiles into her whiskey, allowing the biting warmth of it to wash over her tongue and down her throat. It settles in her stomach before she allows herself to speak.

“This is the Ouroboros Society.” She sees a flicker of recognition on his face, followed closely by apprehension, the grey gaze shuttering quickly. 

Draco’s eyes leave her face, instead tracing the worn tables and chairs of the dive suspiciously. “You treat this like it’s some kind of honour, to be here amongst this ratty furniture and dodgy customers.” He doesn’t hide his sneer, and Hermione feels a protective anger swell within her.

She inclines her head. “It’s… exclusive.” At his huffing laugh, her eyes narrow. “It’s been decades since anyone has stepped foot in this space. Beyond you and I, the last visitors stumbled here by accident, and none of them returned. This place resides within and between worlds, and it only awakens when necessary.” 

Draco sobers, meeting her gaze. “And why have you chosen me to come with you?”

She tilts her head, studying him. “You’re useful, Malfoy.” She fixes her stare on his left palm, the one wrapped around his mug, and his complexion pales. 

He clears his throat. “You said  _ it  _ only awakens when necessary. What is it?”

“We call it the Devourer.” She waves her hand, and a sigil flickers to life on her palm: a dragon eating its tail, the words “One is All” in Latin dancing across its back . “It is born out of death, and to death it will return. It has no one home; it is neither good nor evil. It chooses its host, and through them it works to cleanse the world.” 

A thrill of heat passes through Draco’s gaze, and he quickly extinguishes it, but she allows him to see the triumph in her own. His voice is low when he responds. “And it has chosen you.”

Within her, the darkness purrs. “I have become… something of a vessel. You see, when Bellatrix allowed me to bleed out on your drawing room floor, I died. But the last thing I saw was your gaze. We locked eyes, and I faded away into the darkness.” She watches Draco’s throat bob, uncomfortable at her candid discussion of her death. 

“In that space, I was suspended, grey mist surrounding me, and I was approached by the Devourer, who gave me a choice. I could simply choose to fade away into an afterlife that may or may not exist, or I could be given a second chance. I could embrace the Devourer and become power.” 

Doubt flickers across his face. “The Granger I know wouldn’t give agree so simply to such grave terms.” 

She snorts. “The Granger you knew died.” She leans across the table, her fist coming down heavily on the splintered wooden surface as she loosens her control, just enough to allow the being to rise to the surface, to temper her words. “When you let me die on your drawing room floor, you created a tether.” 

“Granger, what—”

She continues, ignoring the interruption. “That tether allowed me to cross back through the Veil and begin the Devourer’s work.”

She saw the hesitation in his eyes warring with the curiosity that got the better of him. “And what is that work?” 

Leaning backward in the chair, she muses how to phrase her answer. In the end, honesty wins. “It’s quite simple, really. The Ouroboros Society seeks to rid the world of those… less than savory individuals. The Devourer consumes their power, thus maintaining the balance but destroying the threat.” 

Draco’s eyes lock on hers, and Hermione recognizes the flash of fear coupled with intrigue in his gaze. “You’re mad,” he breathes. 

“Quite,” she allows, “but I exist within the grey, neither alive nor dead, and I am tied to the promise I made. Without it, I cease to exist.” 

Hermione lounges in the chair, watching his mind race through the information she’s given him. It’s enough to make her laugh, calling back to their time in Hogwarts when she would watch him from beneath lowered lashes. He’s silent when she adds, “I could help you, you know.”

When he raises an apprehensive brow, she continues. “You’re powerful, yes, but you lack the necessary means to conduct the… business” —her nose wrinkles— “that you typically engage in.” 

Heat flares deep in his gaze. “And how would you know of my business?”

“Six months is a long time to watch someone, dear.” Her gaze flits over his features. “I’ve found that, in this half-life, I’ve become rather bored of playing by the rules. They don’t serve my purposes, and I rather think that you would be more than capable to help me should you rid yourself of the honour you’re so preoccupied with.”

His already pale skin turns clammy, and she watches his fist coil into themselves.

“Per your argument, you should want to eliminate me, if this— thing wants you to eliminate those that ‘dance in the dark.’” His nose wrinkles at his words, a poor attempt to hide the fear she senses in his posture. 

She inclines her head; there’s no use in denying the truth. “Normally, yes. But, as I’ve said, you’ve created a tether. Your magic calls to mine. I wonder why that might be.” With a cock of her head, she once more eyes the hands that are wrapped around the cheap glass.

The line of his throats bobs, and he slowly unfurls his hands from their deathly grasp on his rocks glass, placing his palm upward on the tabletop. He closes his eyes, and she sees his certainty waver for only a moment before a glamour on his hand shimmers and fades away.

Wrapped around a crushed skull is another dragon, the likeness to her own sending a thrill through her, and it, too, bears words across its back: “and by it All.” Heartbeats hammer in her chest, and she resists the urge to reach out and run her hand over the raised edges of the mark; it is inflamed, newly raised from the skin, and the entity within her purrs in satisfaction. 

When he rapidly clenches his fists and slides them off the table and into his lap, she smiles. “I think we can come to an understanding.”

She unfolds herself from the table, beckoning him to follow after she throws down a handful of silver coins he doesn’t recognize. He follows her to the back of the bar, in the shadows of which she removes the glamour from a stairwell. As they ascend them, she feels his gaze on her, the way it traces the lines of her curves, whether or not he wants to, and she smiles to herself. Oh yes, he would do just fine.

After several flights of the stairs, they finally reach a landing that leads to a long hallway, at the end of which is a heavy wooden door. Their footsteps echo in the space, and the swish of her wand is deafening as she unlocks it. A heavy click precedes its opening, and the hinges screech their protest, but Hermione slips through the opening. It slams shut as soon as they’ve both crossed the threshold. 

Hermione ignores Draco’s huffs behind her, choosing instead to light the candles that are placed throughout the loft. Cobwebs dance around her, catching in her curls, but she pays them no mind. A pentagram is already outlined on the floor, and she is careful to avoid marring its lines.

Her task complete, she motions the man forward. His apprehension is palpable, but the sheen in his eyes betray his anticipation. When he stops in front of her, her tongue flickers out to wet her lips, and he watches, transfixed.

“In this room, you will do well to remember who it is that you serve.” Hermione’s voice is low, nearly rumbling and almost entirely divorced from the breathy feminine trill of her youth. “Tell me, Draco—” She passes in front of him, one hand reaching up to trail over his shoulder and along the line of his back. The being within her purrs in satisfaction at the tremor that wracks his body. “—do you enjoy the power of destroying another human?”

Malfoy takes a moment to answer, and Hermione leans in until her face nearly rests against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of her cigarette that still clings to his skin. She prompts him. “Do you feel it inside you, that darkness, that satisfaction, in making someone beg? In holding their fragile potentiality in the palm of your hand?”

His throat bobs before he answers. “I feel it. It’s—it feels like it’s curled in my chest, waiting to strike.”

A smile ghosts over her lips, and she leans up onto the balls of her feet to whisper to him, her lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “And when does it feel the  _ best _ . When do you just want to let go?”

His hands tremble, and his words are barely audible. “Right now.”

Satisfaction races through her, and the Devourer crowes within her. She leans forward, pressing herself to his back and running a hand over his torso. “I can make you feel like that  _ all the time _ ,” she murmurs to him, allowing her hands to explore his chest, to revel in the low groan he emits. “Think of the power, the satisfaction.” When she pulls away, he almost deflates at the loss. “I can help you destroy those that destroyed you.” 

“How?” His desperation is palpable, and he sways on the spot.

She knows; she has him. Her smile is feral when she faces him again. “Accept it: the madness, the anger, the hatred. Accept it, and together we can work to destroy Voldemort, to begin our reign, to right the horrible wrongs that have been wrought on the wizarding world. On your family. On  _ you _ .” She caresses his cheek, and he leans into the touch, eyes closed.

When he finally opens them, his pupils are blown wide and his breathing is laboured. “Show me.”


	3. Part 3: Demons

**Part 3:** **_Demons_ **

_ If our demons cannot dance,  
_ _ neither can we. _

 

They crash together, again and again, teeth sinking into tendons and words landing like blades through the slats of their ribs. Their coupling is hateful, all nails and broken skin, but they revel in the suspension of humanity. Together, their demons rejoice, unfurling from the inner workings of their minds, picking the locks so carefully fit to their cages to embrace the freedom they allow one another in the carnality of flesh.

Her gasps reverberate in his mind, and she swears that she can hear the staccato hammering of his heart.  The shadows wrap around them, dancing together in a whirlwind of magic. 

When they finally sink to the ground together and he enters her, the pentagram flares with brilliant light, and Draco can  _ see _ . Everything that was once cloudy solidifies in his mind’s eye, and his body moves of its own accord, driving pleasure from her while he chases his own.  Unbridled power courses through his veins, and a magic he has never known before awakens within him, the depth of it searing through his nerves and rending him until he is little more than flesh. 

The magic feels like the part of him that has always been missing, filling the void in him that has ached since his mother died. And as he drives into Hermione again and again, he knows she can feel it too, that she revels in it too. In this moment, in this coupling, they are one, their magics weaving together and reassembling themselves in perfect unity. 

His understanding of the last few months coming to a head as her orgasm crashes over and he follows shortly behind. White spots dance behind his eyelids, and in that moment, he knows.

Whatever she asks of him, he will do it.

They lie there for a few moments, silent save for the pounding of their hearts and their shared breath. When he finally faces her again, she stares at the ceiling with a contented smile.

She meets his gaze, and he startles. Where her eyes were once a gentle chocolate now boasts a solid black, endless in their depths. A primal part of him screams at him to run, but the darkness within him strains to meet it. When she blinks, the blackness recedes.

With a swallow, he looks away, unable to maintain the eye contact without betraying his nerves. “What next?” A large part of him, the part he’s tried to silence since the war, since his mother’s death, since he was cast out of Voldemort’s favour, shies away. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer, but the newly awakened part of him crowes in response.

She is silent for a moment, and when she speaks, her voice has an undercurrent, not entirely her own. “Tonight, we rise.” 

The hairs along the back of his neck stand to attention. Despite himself, a cold smirk graces his lips. This—the power coursing through him, the unbridled rage that simmers in his gut—this is what he deserves, what he needs. This is what his darkness has been craving.

His hand closes over Hermione’s naked hip, his fingernails biting into the bare flesh, and he revels in the way she arches into his touch and how his magic responds. It’s foreign but satisfying, a door opened that he never wishes to close again.

He watches Hermione rise from the floor, and he follows suit, taking care once more not to disturb the lines of the pentagram. It’s an ancient force driving him, and he feels stronger than he has in a long time. Endless. 

When Hermione turns to face him again, the black depths of her eyes are back; instead of cowering, he steps into her space. At the sharp catch of breath in her throat, he knows his gaze mirrors hers. He traces a finger along the line of her clavicle, tracing the sharp jut of her bone beneath the edge of her robes. 

“Where do we begin?” His words rumble through them, and she leans into him. 

She inhales deeply. “We begin at the end.” With that, she Apparates them away.

When the land is steady beneath his feet again, he takes in their surroundings, starting when he recognizes the gilded gates of Malfoy Manor, his former estate home and Voldemort’s base of operations. Without hesitation, he waves his wand, giving entrance to the grounds. 

His heart is in his throat as they march with purposeful steps up the grand marble entrance, a heady beat thrumming in his head when she blasts the door inward. 

The home is as he remembers it, but his gaze rests on the one addition: an ornate throne sits in the middle of the dining room and Voldemort sits atop it, his monster of a snake coiled around his feet. When his gaze lands on the intruders, a cold laugh escapes his snake-like features.

“Ahh, you Mister Malfoy. Quite a surprise to see you here after your disgraceful exit.” Draco sneers, his wand hand itching to begin casting spells, but the magic inside him forces his hand to remain still. Hermione speaks beside him, but her voice is not her own.

“It’s been a long time, Tom.”

The wizard freezes, round eyes the only indication of his fear. “Who are you?”

Hermione laughs, high and thin. “Some call me Death. Others call me Osiris. You may call me the Devourer.” Her head cocks unnaturally, and Draco feels the thrum of her magic in the air calling to his own. “We met, briefly, if you recall.”

Voldemort sweeps to his feet, wand sliding into his hand. 

“You see,” Hermione continues, and Draco slowly unsheathes his wand. “I made you an offer when Mister Potter managed to defeat you so long ago.” She snorts, derision written across her features. “And you rebuked me. I warned you of what would happen if you didn’t listen to me.”

She stalks forward, Voldemort shrinking backwards. Draco revels in the fear written across his features; he’s never seen the near legendary man appear anything other than collected and driven. His own smirk of hatred crawls up his face as Hermione closes the distance. 

Her voice drops low. “Did I not warn you that if you continued on this path that I would come to you as death? That I would strike you down where others could not?”

Voldemort raises his wand, and Hermione rapidly raises her palm, magic blasting outward from her palm and destroying the wand. “Your deathstick will be of no help, I’m afraid.” 

Footsteps echo down the hallway, and at Hermione’s glance over her shoulder, he waves his wand, sending the doors crashing shut. With a slash of his marked palm, the same dark surge of magic she wielded shrouds the room and seals the doors. The shouts of the Death Eaters are cut off, and they are left in the resounding silence of the room.

“How—” Voldemort begins, and in that moment, Draco clearly sees the man he used to be: scared, spineless, and vulnerable. He is stripped away of all that makes him powerful, and a thrill runs throug Draco at the knowledge that before the end of the evening, this poor excuse for a wizard will be nothing more than the dust beneath his feet.

Hermione’s voice booms around them, both the deep bass of the Devourer and her own intertwining, speaking their truths to the creature before them. “We are your reckoning, your hell, your destruction.” She slashes her palm down, and Voldemort is brought to his knees. “You were given a warning, and now you will pay the price.” 

He watches her, fascinated at the graceful lines of her body, the way she commands the room, so different than the Granger he knew and yet entirely the same in the calculating and cutthroat approach. With a nod from her, they both face their palms outward. Green light fills the room, and Draco bites back a moan at the force of the magic coursing through him, racing through his veins, and setting his soul aflame. A thud echoes through the room, and their magic vanishes. 

On the floor before them lays the prone form of Voldemort, his empty gaze staring up at the ceiling. Once more, blood trickles onto the pristine tile of his childhood home, this time from the wizard that destroyed everything that Draco held dear to himself while at the same time waking this being within him, this gift of power that he might never have had without it. The weight of it crashes into Draco and, before he realizes what he’s doing, he crushes Hermione to him, their lips frantic in celebration. When they break apart, Hermione stares up at him, their satisfaction mingling together. 

“Shall we finished what we started?” The being within him crowes in delight and he nods. As they walk away, Hermione pauses, unsheathing her wand for the first time and pointing it at the dead wizard’s form. The acrid smell of burning flesh fills the air, and flash gold across the corpse’s forehead: “and if it does not contain All, then All is Nothing.” The writing in their own marks echoes it, and their magics purr in satisfaction as they cross the threshold of the doorway.

The heavy wooden door barely falls shut before flashes of light and dying screams of the Death Eaters announce the return of Death and her demon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are love. Let me know what you think!


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